by Tom Trott
I shrugged, not knowing what she wanted. ‘So they’re idiots.’
‘Idiots who have severely damaged my reputation.’
‘So sue them, you’re good at it.’
‘To sue I need evidence.’
Finally, I understood my purpose in this whole scheme. She wanted to prove that they had ripped up their work for a different reason, because that turned their statement about the quality of their concrete into slander. She could sue them for that. And once she had sued them for that, then she could sue them for loss of revenues, or something else like that. I was sure she would try. If they had a different reason, that was.
‘What if there’s nothing to find?’
‘We delivered that order of concrete in sixteen trucks, they delivered theirs in twenty-two. Please explain that.’
I thought about it. Wanting, of course, to eliminate the obvious.
‘Smaller trucks?’
‘Very slightly smaller capacity. Accounts for one truck. Still leaves five extra.’
‘And in your personal opinion, as someone who knows concrete, there’s no reason for that.’
‘Nothing legitimate. And I mean that exactly how it sounds. They’ve been getting these deliveries every couple of weeks since.’
‘Are they over by the same amount?’
‘I wouldn’t know, we were never contracted for those orders. I can only tell you about the first one. I’ve no reason to think that they are, and no reason to think that they aren’t.’
I sat back for a moment, sipping my drink and having a good old think. Was there something else inside those trucks? Something smuggled in. Something illegal. It seemed the obvious reason, and I’m sure she thought that too. But she couldn’t break windows or break heads. Private Detectives are only hired for three reasons: either the police are not interested, or there’s no crime involved, or it requires committing a crime. Did I really want to expose myself to that kind of risk, with the police on my back already, just for five measly grand? If I was smarter I’d know I was doing it for those legs. Plus everything else on top.
‘Did ABC pay you?’
‘This isn’t about money,’ she said quickly.
‘Listen, Monica, my job is made a lot easier when people just answer my questions. That goes double for clients.’
She chewed her tongue. She might not like me telling her what to do, but she knew it was in her best interests. Which is why I knew I could get away with it. Which is why I did it. Because, let’s face it, I enjoyed doing it.
‘Yes,’ was the little she wanted to give me.
‘In full?’
‘Yes.’
‘After the job was finished?’
‘The last of it, yes. So what? If you’re worried about my legal position—’
‘I’m really not worried about that,’ I interrupted. ‘I was just wondering why they would pay you if they were unhappy,’ I continued, ‘unless they suddenly needed to be unhappy.’
She leant back in her chair, not entirely understanding what I meant. Maybe I didn’t either.
Then she said, ‘I intend to destroy this coward.’ She meant it too.
‘It’s not the most cowardly thing I’ve heard,’ I added, not really meaning anything, but she looked at me as though I was stupid.
‘That’s his name,’ she explained, ‘Robert Coward.’
I sat up straight.
‘The C in ABC,’ she added.
Well, this changed things. Dramatically. I took it completely seriously now.
‘Some extra trucks isn’t much to go on.’
She sighed, ‘I went to you because I couldn’t go to the police. And when the police can’t go to the police they go to you. What is it they see in you?’
It was my turn to smirk. ‘Dirty hands.’
8
Concrete Evidence
i finished my negroni, and bid the alluring Miss Todman a good night. In the lobby I almost made the man’s eyes pop out of his head by placing one foot over the brass threshold. I couldn’t resist.
‘I had something on my shoe.’
Frowning, he said ‘I hope you had an enjoyable evening, Mr Grabarz.’ He just wanted me to know he had my name.
‘Thanks for the warm welcome,’ I sarcastically threw back at him.
He seemed to sincerely not care, and went back to whatever it was he did when there was no one around. I headed out into the cold.
It was getting chilly again now, like being trapped in a freezer. The sky was a grey curtain pulled over the city, and the wind was spiking erratically, harbingering the storm that I could see approaching from the horizon, over the sea. From France. There seemed to be no better time to “investigate ABC Construction” than right now.
I jumped on my bike and roared back along New Church Road, then Church Road, then across the border back into Brighton, through the town centre, and out the other side. I was buffeted by the wind as I emerged up onto the coast road heading east toward the marina. Everything below cliff height was now shrouded in a sea mist that was settling over the strange ghost town that is the marina at night. I zipped the wrong way down the Marina Way off ramp and circled down the long flyover into the fog.
The marina has restaurants, cafés, pubs, a cinema, a bowling alley, some flats, and a Chinese restaurant on a boat. But no clubs. The only thing open that late is the casino. And it’s not a big one.
My Honda gently hummed through the thick fog, just in case there was a gambling patron lurking somewhere around, but I parked up without seeing a soul. In this mist I was only going to see someone if they were within ten feet of me, and given that everything else was shut the odds seemed very unlikely. Maybe Miss Todman had arranged this weather especially for my illicit activities, it seemed within her power.
I marched toward the construction site feeling unnervingly blind. My footsteps made no noise audible above the squall, which was good for stealth, but also meant that there could be an army of zombies just eleven feet away and I would never hear them coming.
The site was appearing gradually out of the grey haze. Waves were breaking over the marina wall and lashing what was only the shell of a building. A four-storey concrete shell with long metal fronds extending upwards toward where the rest of the building would be. It was imposing nonetheless, a concrete cliff face above a sea of smoke, and surrounded by a sturdy metal fence a couple of metres high. I say sturdy, but the wind could have ripped it down if it tried.
Brighton marina is apparently the largest marina complex in Europe, whatever that means, but it’s set to get even larger. This shell I was approaching was the first of what will be eight or so buildings, one of which will be a forty-storey skyscraper. Cover any old parts on the artist’s impression of the finished project and you could be mistaken for thinking it was Dubai or Shanghai. Not little old Brighton.
The increase in population to the marina from eight-hundred new flats was going to be incredible. There was no way of knowing what effect it would have. But then again, what was there to lose here anyway?
I stared through the tall metal fence. There was a single dark opening, which I assumed would one day be a posh glass double door into a lobby. Right now it looked more like the mouth of a cave. My primal instincts were echoing at the back of my skull, do not go in.
Outside the entrance, I could see an abandoned cement mixer. A Portakabin site office, lights off. Various tools strewn around. Coupled with the eerie fog, the general impression was that some panic or disaster had happened, everything had been dropped where it was, and the place had been abandoned in a hurry. Maybe it was those zombies.
That was just the cold down my spine talking. Really, the workmen were just lazy, I told myself. I wondered if there was a guard. The Portakabin lights were definitely off. Still, he could be walking around. I could handle a guard, you can always buy them. But cameras? I hoped not. If her hunch was right then this place was being used for some shady stuff, and I was pretty sure they wouldn’t want c
ameras in that case. But they would want a guard. Can you always buy a guard if he’s working for a ruthless bastard criminal? Also, I didn’t have any money. I want to go home, I thought. Anywhere warm would do. So, I’d better do this quickly.
I hauled myself over the fence, and sloshed through dirty puddles. The Portakabin was locked. I had taken a hefty torch from one of my saddlebags but I didn’t want to attract attention out here. I knelt down to pick the lock in the dark. It didn’t take long.
Although it had looked sturdy on the outside, inside I could hear every wall and panel rattling. I wouldn’t want to be in here when Storm Joseph hit. I flicked on the torch, but with my own special invention on the end: a piece of white cloth attached with a rubber band. A diffuser of sorts that gave me a two-foot bubble of smooth light, rather than a narrow, mile-long beam that would show in the fog like a laser through smoke, and probably land small aircraft in the process.
Despite my intelligence, there was nothing in the cabin to find. Just hard hats, high-vis jackets, and a shitload of mud. I guess they weren’t quite lazy enough to leave important stuff lying around. I clicked off the torch. The cabin rattled again. Smatterings of rain lashed the tiny windows. The wind was making it through the gaps around the frame, playing that harmonica-of-the-damned sound that it does through your letterbox at night. Like blowing across the mouth of a bottle. It could be the call of some ghost ship out in the storm. Calling me out there to Davy Jones’ locker. I wasn’t swimming to France in this weather. And there was nothing here. That only left me one option: the mouth of the cave and the darkness within.
Once inside the shell, and despite all my primal instincts, I was still surprised just how dark it was. I needed the full beam in here. It was darker than outside and even noisier. The outside walls were wrapped in plastic sheeting, which was valiantly fighting to keep out the storm. As it slapped and whipped against the scaffolding I felt like I was inside a giant Christmas present desperately being torn at by an excited child. But the plastic was winning, despite the occasional rip it was still protecting me.
What it couldn’t keep out was the mist. It was as thick inside the corridors as it had been outside, rendering the torch and all its beam practically useless. The only purpose it served was to warn me of the random, and very dangerous, drops in the floor that were waiting to be filled by lift shafts. I narrowly missed one and caught the reflection from my torch of still-wet concrete. Rain was leaking in through the temporary roof cover four storeys above and dripping in a long shower down the shaft and into the basement. Was it only the surface of the concrete that was wet?
I stepped around the shaft and kept moving deeper into the building. Into its dark heart. There was a room at the end of this corridor, I could just about make out.
Metre by metre I approached, but my torchlight never revealed anything. It was a black hole, light could not escape it. Then it became more like a black haze, the sheen of the air moisture repelling a slight glow.
At last, I stepped inside. It was much quieter in here. The storm was just a memory, something that can’t touch you when surrounded by concrete on all six sides. It felt like an empty bank vault. A safe deposit box. Maybe it was.
Across the floor of the room were wooden pallets. Most of them were broken, a few were still intact. Only one of them was loaded. I could feel my heartbeat increasing. If there was something to find, this was it.
I pulled out my penknife, which is a tool apparently, and cut through the tarp that was lashed over it. Small boxes toppled out. Small prescription pill boxes. I picked one up, ripped the foil covered plastic tray out, and popped a pill into my hand. Blue. Round. With a star debossed in the centre. I looked at the packet. I couldn’t read it. Not just because it was dark and it was mostly chemistry. But because it was in French.
I pocketed it and marched back down the corridor. I had to do something about this. But what could that be? At the very least, getting the police involved would give Monica Todman her case for suing ABC and get her off my back. The police would set up surveillance and start adding faces to the names on Andy’s wall. Beyond that I could be pretty sure nothing would touch Robert Coward. He wouldn’t know anything about it. People like him are always just out of reach.
I started to jog through the puddles and round the lift shafts. But what was there to charge them with anyway? All we could prove was that their premises were used to store some drugs that aren’t illegal anyway. Damn legal highs. Fuck ‘em.
A harsh metal clang!
I froze. Adrenaline was remorselessly injected into my bloodstream. I turned off the torch. All I could hear was the storm tearing at the plastic. Rainwater dripping through the layers of the building. I had been too busy thinking to pay attention. What had it sounded like? Metal, definitely. Metal on metal? Perhaps something had blown over. Either way, every nerve in my body was telling me to run down the corridor, vault the fence in one leap, and ride my bike as fast as I could.
I overrode them. Steadily moving one foot in front of the other. Back down the corridor, keeping the torch off this time.
It all happened in a second. I heard a scrabbling sound, like claws on a wood floor, then felt a blinding pain in the side of my head. I was falling. Everything was red, like my own head was closing up around me. Then it got ten times worse. Things went dark. Thick liquid started pouring into every orifice. Eyes. Ears. Mouth. I was drowning. Drowning in something thick, viscous, that I could barely kick against. With a dawning terror I realised what had happened. Someone had struck me with something, sent me plummeting down a lift shaft into what was definitely still-wet concrete.
I surfaced. Gasping for air, but not getting any. Struggling to stay up. I went under again. Up again. I couldn’t see, my face was plastered shut with the stuff. I dragged myself in any direction. Slapping, smacking at the stuff, trying to get traction. My energy was already giving out. I didn’t have anything left. My heart, arms, and legs felt like they were on fire. If I gave up I was going under again and I wouldn’t make it back up this time.
Finally, I hit something solid. Pulled myself out with the very last of my strength. I lay there, oxygen barely entering my lungs through a mouth and nostrils that were clogged with slowly solidifying building material.
Footsteps. My brain screamed at me that I was not alone. Get up! Get up! I ran blindly towards the sound of rain. I felt it on my skin a few seconds before I ran straight into the fence. I fumbled for it, managed to wrench myself over it.
What happens to concrete if you swallow it? If it gets in your ears? Your eyes? Your skin? Was someone going to find me tomorrow, frozen solid like one of those lame human statues? Dead. I needed to get the stuff off me. But how? I could only hear one thing: waves.
I turned in the direction where I thought the moorings were and jumped. I fell again. For what seemed like a terrifyingly long time. Then I hit the water. It felt as solid as concrete when I broke through it. But it was unmistakably, undeniably, painfully cold. I thrashed and thrashed, eyes open, I had to clean even my eyeballs, and when I could thrash no more I surfaced. I could see. I was only five metres from a jetty.
When I pulled myself out I collapsed onto the floor in the foetal position. Shivering. To add insult to injury the wind was making it through every gap in my clothes. Round my neck. Down my back. Up my back. I would be a frozen ice-sculpture instead. It was this wind that got me back up again. Running, desperate, for my bike.
You may think that a situation like this was no time for pride, but there was just no way that I could let Thalia see me like that. Especially after being so selfish toward her. It would just be too humiliating. I needed somewhere warm. Somewhere to shower. Some clean clothes. The answer was obvious: Rory’s.
I fumbled the key into the lock and pushed. The door had definitely got heavier since I was last here. I flicked on the torch, the white beam adding to the sterile atmosphere.
As I went about closing every curtain and pulling down every blind I surv
eyed the carnage left by the CSI team. The sofa was stripped down to its frame. The covers missing. And the cushions bagged up in the corner. All the floorboards leading from the sofa to the door were missing. They were thorough, I’d give them that.
It looked as though a few items had been removed. But then again, it looked that way last time. It was just so sparse, I couldn’t remember if they had been there in the first place. There was plastic sheeting covering everything that was left. It looked as though Rory had gone away for ten years and the place was being preserved. But he wasn’t coming back, and all this stuff would be landfill soon enough.
In the bathroom I got the shower running and it started to fill the room with a lovely hot steam as I peeled off my clothes. They were stiff and made an uncomfortable cracking noise from the already dry concrete residue. They were ruined. No argument there.
In the mirror I rooted around in my hair, pulling out tiny grey lumps with hairs attached. I could see a large bruise forming across the side of my face. I didn’t know what I had been hit with. Or by whom. But they had done some damage. I’ve never been handsome, but until then I had never been ugly either. I got by with a chin you could set your watch to and a smile you could punch.
The steam was getting too nice now, soothing my muscles and making me sleepy. I could feel myself being pulled down towards the plush bath mat that was poking through my toes. It was only a bath mat, but my god, in this situation it felt like a king size mattress with duck down pillows.
I leant on the sink. My legs were giving way. I needed to sit down. I needed to sit down. Looking around there was nowhere in the bathroom, not even a cabinet of any sort. The toilet in the other room. I almost ran. As I collapsed down on the closed plastic lid I heard it crack.
I was so tired. I hadn’t slept since George’s stupid text. That was probably only twenty-one hours ago, but it felt much longer. It felt like I had been awake for a week.
I was so desperate for it that it filled me with dread to imagine the police were watching the place, and that they would see the lights on. Or otherwise the people in the flat below would call them thinking I had broken in. Either way, people would come breaking down the door just to stop me sleeping. It distressed me so much that I pushed the toilet door shut. Darkness. Sweet, wonderful darkness. There was a lock. At the very least that way it would take them time to get in.
